The Forming of a Good Man
by Pikeru's Angel
Summary: Sherlock did not have a good childhood. Or a good... anything, really. The story of how Sherlock became who he is, and how he became the good man he was supposed to be after that. Semi-strong T rating. Mentions Shohn at the end, but not Shohn centric.


**Warnings: Child abuse, drug use, and other rather unfavorable thing. Somewhat strong T rating.**

**A/N: I only read through this once, and the idea had been bugging me, so... yeah. And I couldn't actually re-read it for mistakes because I actually ended up crying a bit halfway through and I had to let it go for a few hours. -_-' Yeah. I know.  
Anyway, enjoy about two hours of work. All mistakes are my own and there are probably typos a-plenty. Sorry.**

{][][}

When Sherlock was born, Mycroft was seven and Sherringford was seventeen. The elder Holmes -who was likely the most normal person in the whole family- was going to go to college that spring. In America. Harvard Law School, of course. He would be taking the rather dull and predictable path of a lawyer. But Sherringford Holmes the First, their father, hadn't been happy about that. He wasn't really happy about anything on average, but this brought him out of indifference.

Sherringford Holmes was a hard man that believed that one needed to rule all under his control with an iron fist. He was a high power in the British Government (most said he _was _the British government) and everyone in a lower position knew not to get on his bad side or they would disappear. His own son's learned, quite quickly, to stay quiet in their rooms and study to be the geniuses they were bred to be.

Sherlock was born though, and their father was already in a seemingly permanent state of displeasure since Sherry left. By the time he started getting noticed he would often be called to Mr. Holmes' office for whatever antics he got into that day. Sherlock, even at the age of three, was not good at learning things that were forced on him, and these lessons certainly were forced.

At the age of six Sherlock had been running around (he couldn't keep still to save his own young life), trying to find something or other for his new experiment. Mrs. Holmes was out of the house again. Though a caring mother, she was often sent off on little trips. Mostly so she didn't know what happened to her boys. She would never find out.

Anyway, Sherlock was running about, when he passed by the hall. Outside his father's office. He broke something passing by a table - something mummy had got that she particularly liked.

He was sent back to his room almost two hours later. Mycroft was waiting, first-aid kit slipped under the bed in its now usual spot. Silent tears streamed down the young boy's face, and he all but sprinted into the waiting pair of secure arms. He whimpered when Mycroft helped with the cuts and told him how to hide the bruises since they had school the next day. By the end he was wrapped in a new pair of pajamas, clutching at Mycroft's night shirt like a lifeline. Like a boy his age shouldn't.

"W-why does f-father h-hate me?" He'd hiccupped quietly. The thirteen year old stiffened, before forcing himself to relax as he stroked soft blond (because Sherlock's hair didn't start getting darker until he hit his preteens) back.

"He doesn't hate you." He murmured. "He just… he gets upset easily. It'll be better when we're older. As soon as I can I'll go off to college, and I'll take you with me as soon as I can." He tilted Sherlock's far-too thin face up, and the look in those light eyes just about killed him then and there.

"P-promise?" So innocent. Like the word promise meant you could do anything, no matter how impossible.

"Promise." Mycroft said firmly.

Three years later, Mycroft couldn't keep that promise. He went off to college at fifteen, got a side job online that paid quite lucratively for one person, and got the highest marks in every class he took. But he was busy and still only sixteen. The courts wouldn't recognize him when he tried to get Sherlock out, and he still didn't make enough to support himself and a nine year old boy. So he had to wait. Until he was legal, and graduated, and could make enough money to support the two of them

And he did. At twenty he graduated, getting a degree it took most people ten years to obtain. It helped that he doubled -even tripled- how many classes he took compared to the average person. He got a minor position in the same government his father had pretty much run just as Sherringford stepped down from his. And he got Sherlock out of that house.

Too little too late.

The minute he picked Sherlock up from the Holmes estate he could see the haunted look in grey, stormy eyes. Bad things had happened in that manor. Unspeakable things. Things not even Mycroft found out.

Sherlock was even thinner than he'd been before, which really was saying something. His clothes were baggy and ill fitting and just a bit too short. His ribs were even sticking out a bit, just enough to feel them with a gentle touch. He'd gotten taller, too. Almost five foot two. Once straight, shaggy blond hair had turned to dark brown curls. But what Mycroft noticed was the bruises. Ones shaped like hands on lithe wrists as far as the visible went, another one his cheek. Bother were a dark, angry purple-red but there were other's too. Ones that were healing. And Sherlock didn't even react when his older brother put a smooth hand on once porcelain skin other than the slightest of flinches.

In that moment Mycroft knew he had come too late. Sherlock had gone one step too far, their father a little too drunk. And Sherlock had been damaged beyond repair. From dented to cracked to shattered. All Mycroft could do was try to pick up the pieces.

When they got back to Mycroft's apartment (more than big enough for the two of them) he found out Sherlock had gone mute because of one simple question. He communicated with some odd combination of sign language and mores code through blinking with the outside world.

"Are you hungry, Sherlock?" Mycroft had asked, taking his brother's admittedly small bag to his room before returning to the kitchen. Sherlock was still standing by the couch, glancing around and looking at the chairs as though afraid to sit of the furniture.

Sherlock had started at the question, eyes wide. He shook his head, finger spelling that he was perfectly fine. The elder nodded, ignoring the guilt and worry burning like a pit in his stomach.

"Go ahead and sit down." He said after a minute. He got a jerky nod in response, and Sherlock sat down on the chair by him. His posture was stick-straight, eyes focused on the wall ahead of him while his breathing started to become slightly shallow.

Worried, Mycroft had gone over, putting a hand on the slim shoulder where he could feel a boney collar bone through the thin shirt material. Sherlock yelped, jumping up and falling on the floor. And it killed Mycroft even ore that his little brother looked so afraid.

So Mycroft did the only thing he knew how.

He kneeled down, taking the slim teen in his arms. "You're okay, Sherlock." He said quietly. "It's just Mycroft. You're going to be fine, Sherlock. Nothing will ever happen to you again. I promise."

And at that Sherlock jerked up, eyes teary and threatening to spill over for the first time since he was seven.

"You promised before!" He shouted, voice hoarse from lack of use, and practically ran to his new room.

He didn't speak again for three months.

Another few years passed. Sherlock went off to college, and got his own apartment. He earned money by helping out the police with an internship, even brought down a few killers. He also started dating.

Mycroft used his position to keep an eye on his baby brother. He didn't like what he saw. Drugs and sex and abusive relationships abound. He was able to get Sherlock out of a few; help get rid of a few others. But he couldn't stop the drug use.

Until Sherlock met Gregory Lestrade.

Just got promoted to Detective Inspector at the Yard. He was a good man who brought Sherlock in on cases and treated him how their father should have. Sherlock still winced whenever he mentioned his daughter thought.

It was Lestrade who brought Sherlock out of his pit of depression and drugs and bad relationships. He got Sherlock clean and fine. But he also, inadvertently, brought out Sherlock's coping mechanism when people got close enough to start poking at old wounds. Sociopathic tendencies. More than tendencies. He faked it incredibly well. Better than any actor. A cold, uncaring, unfeeling exterior so no one could see the hurt little boy who just wanted his brother to save him.

John Watson, s unlikely as it was, was the savior. The only one who could crack that shell. The only one Sherlock shared everything with, sobbing against the army doctor in the dead of night the week before their wedding.

At the reception, Mycroft took the groom aside, both of them. He thanked John, and with as much dignity as he could, he hugged his younger brother and apologized.

Even if nothing was fixed yet, the cracks were well on their way.


End file.
